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Eddy Joyce was born in 1935 and spent his formative years in Shotley Bridge, Durham.
I recall my first football ------- a pig's bladder. Dad brought it home one day, and I remember being thrilled. He blew it up and must have tied a knot in it somehow.
We took it onto the village green outside the Kings Head, for a game . I kicked it towards goal but a gust of wind caught it and blew it in the opposite direction. I recall only playing with it a couple of times before one day it blew onto the road under a passing car , so that was that !!!
Across the road from our house in Riverside was a Chestnut tree, and at 'conker' time all the lads in the village would gather to knock down the chestnuts from the topmost branches dodging the passing cars in between.
Down the road was one of our favourite spots, the River Derwent. The river being the border between the counties of Durham and Northumberland. The Shotley section of the river boasted four swimming spots.
'Levellies' was classed more for 'plodging', 'Channelees' for those learning to swim, and Chatties, so named because a John Chat was killed there diving off the rock. This spot was reserved for the 'Big Lads', and banned from us learners. The best spot however was under the bridge.
Shotley Bridge being a very beautiful village, attracted quite a lot of tour buses to the area. The passengers naturally getting off the bus would walk onto the bridge to look at the river. While swimming, the odd coin would be thrown in, much to our delight.---------------- I got many a treat to the cinema this way.
We didn`t have any cinemas in the village and had to travel to Blackhill or Consett to see the films. Those were the days when, for the admission price, we would watch what we called the 'Little picture' then the 'Gaumont British News' and finally the main feature. Hopefully a western, 'The Dirango Kid'.
One of the picture houses named the Town Hall had shown so many westerns that a rumour went around that they were closing down for a couple of weeks to clean the stables out.
However, in the village we did have a playground of sorts that was used for football cricket, rounders, and wall games like 'Mounty Kitty' etc. There was also the problem of recovering the ball as it was kicked or knocked out of the play area. This usually ended in an argument as to who had to retrieve it, followed by the odd punch-up.
Next to the playground was the Working Men's Club. We had five pubs in the village but this was the most popular. Next door we had Mrs Hill's the butchers shop where large hooks and carcasses hung from the ceiling. I can still picture her slicing though the joints of meat.
Further up the road was the ironmongers Percy Richards. He was also a captain in the army cadets. This shop was typical of the ironmongers in any village selling anything and everything, nails, nuts and bolts, and wire netting.
He even had one of the old fashioned fuel bowsers at the door supplying paraffin. This was my favourite shop.
Mr. and Mrs Coxon had the shop next door and sold foodstuffs and bread etc. The shop is still in the family. My mother sent me there one day to buy some foodstuffs. I came out of the shop loaded up with carrier bags.
The change I had been given in the shop I placed in a pile on the pavement until I organised the bags, then set off home. On arriving home my mother asked for the change, so I ran back to the shop and luckily for me the money was still there in a pile where I had left it.
Mrs Rawlison and her son Henry had the shop next door, and strangely they never seemed to sell very much.
Dimblebee the newsagent had the shop on the corner. This is where we bought our Beano and Dandy and sometimes a packet of five Woodbines (for Dad if anyone asked.)
The Co-op store held the next three shops, my mother's number being 6099. I recall one of the lads in our gang bought some apples there on 'Tick' giving his mother's store number. Did he get a belting when she found out.
A sign on the counter beside the slicer said: ' Will mothers please not sit their babies on the counter as we are getting a little behind in our bacon !!'
I used to marvel at the cobblers shop, watching him repairing the boots and shoes. He would pick up a handful of tacks, throw them into his mouth and as if by magic they would appear heads on the outside across the closed lips of his mouth.
He didn`t get much business from us as Dad, like most fathers, did their own cobbling. I still don't know why that tool is called a 'last!!"
Eddy Joyce, Western Australia, 2002
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